


The Keeper of the Eddystone Light

by Lookfar



Category: Original fic
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-06
Updated: 2010-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookfar/pseuds/Lookfar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lighthouse keeper and a mermaid on a warm March night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Keeper of the Eddystone Light

The Keeper of the Eddystone Light

 

In the beginning he rarely walked out. The rocky coast, the endless battering of the waves and the lowering sky kept him close to home even on mild days. Soon the cold December wind fought to tear his oilskin from his body. And then there was the light, the constant tug of it. He supposed this must be like having a baby, the feeling of not being right when you went too far from it.

 

Not that there would be a baby, with Tessa the way she was. It had got worse all during the winter, her silence and downcast eyes, her sad, spiritless attempts at wifely warmth. She couldn't eat much, especially fish, so it was cornmeal cakes and bacon, but very little altogether. She was thin as a wraith and her little hands were like bundles of whitened sticks. He'd beg her to eat a little more, and she'd say apologetically, "If only I could have something fresh."

There was nothing fresh, just tinned tomatoes and peaches, tinned milk, cornmeal and oatmeal and flour and oil. Nothing fresh till the ice broke up, still weeks away, and then he'd have to decide whether to send her back, let her get her health with her mother and father, and finish out the two year contract alone.

No, he couldn't bother her now, it would be like taking advantage, but it was hard on him, a man of thirty-one, not having his needs met.

After the worst of the winter weather, then, he'd taken up walking just after he'd lit the lamp, only to the base of the peninsula, though he felt the light pulling on him. It got him past the worst hour, the time when he'd used to look forward to bed with her, when the feeling of tasks accomplished turned to anticipation of pleasure. He would return to find her sitting up with a book, and when he said he'd worn himself out and could hardly hold his head up a fleeting look of relief crossed her face, quickly tucked behind a little smile. It cut him but at least it was over in an instant.

It was good when they'd first arrived. Married only six months, and Tessa seemed to find it one with the adventure of leaving home and marriage. She had run straight up the spiral stairs to the room at the top and thrown open the thick window to call down to him. Her long blond hair was loose that day and caught in the wind, streaming like a flag from the lighthouse. She'd laughed and laughed.

She'd enjoyed the coziness of the dwelling, just three rooms with the pure light streaming through the windows. She'd brought little things to make it homelike, her china animals for the shelf, curtains and coverlet and books and pictures for the wall. It was one of the things he loved about her, her fanciful eagerness for new experiences and her way of thinking and talking about things over and over as if she were picking them up and looking at them from a different side each time.

He didn't miss home. He found all the company he wanted in Tessa. He was not much of a talker himself, but he liked to listen to her. Then gradually as the winter days wore on she missed the town and there wasn't enough for her to do and the wind was so biting that they stayed in for days. The sea was too rough to row her in and then the bay froze and they'd known it would be six weeks before they could get through. She had grown quieter and grayer, like the sky and sea. He saw that she felt she was disappointing him so he didn't mention it, except to urge her to eat.

It was different for him here, that was part of the problem. The harshness and cold and loneliness matched something inside him so that he felt one with the weather, the long stony peninsula, the black weed draping the rocks and the clear starry night sky. All one, inside and out, no awkwardness of loud rooms and folk's voices coming at him, wanting his answers. And because Tessa was unhappy here and he was happy, at least with the life, he felt apologetic toward her and didn't mention it.

Then this morning she hadn't gotten out of bed at all. He'd told her she was proba####bly taking a cold and should sleep, but it was a lie. Now he was sure he'd have to send her back, and he feared to think what would happen to them.

He'd cleaned and covered the the lenses and filled the reservoir, then washed the floor in the light room. When he went back down, he glanced into the bedroom. Her small form made a hump under the covers, with the blankets pulled over her head and her back to the door. Was she asleep, he wondered, or staring at the wall? He hadn't the heart to go in.

He cooked oatmeal and had it with some currants and sugar, then worked on a basket he was making for his mother. The day passed slowly without words or thought. In the afternoon he checked the light and brewed Tessa a cup of tea. He made her sit up to drink. She took a few sips, then left it on the night stand.

At dusk he took off the covers and lit the light, checking the reservoirs before taking his walk. There would be no look of relief from Tessa tonight, but it was a habit now and it soothed him. Down to the base of the peninsula and maybe even around the island, since she was sleeping.

It was a soft night, the air stroking his face, a freakish warm night for March. Under the full moon, small waves plashed against the rocks at his feet. He turned to stroll around the cove.

 

A light wind stirred the scrub pines, a different note from the many-bladed hiss of the dune grass. Here there was a sand beach that scrunched beneath his feet as he walked. At the far end of the cove he sat in the lee of a dune, out of the wind. The dry sand held a bit of warmth. For once he did not feel the pull of the light and he did not want to go back to Tessa. He lay back, put his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.

 

He must have slept, for when he opened them it was colder and the waves sounded closer. As if he expected to see her, he turned his head and there was a beautiful girl sitting next to him on the sand. She was white as the moon, her hair plastered wet to her head and shoulders, and he knew from her color and her nakedness what she was before he looked down to the swelling of her hips and the long glistening silver tail below.

 

Her eyes were dark and penetrating, like the picture of Jesus in church, very dark and still, and he was caught up in the moment, his eyes locked with hers. Something passed between them. She had a tenderness about her, as if she knew his trouble, as if she were the young sister of a friend from home. Yet they were said to live very long and she might be twice or three times his age. He saw that, too, in the wise calm of her regard.

Any minute she might leave, but he would tell this story for the rest of his life. He memorized her -- her full breasts tipped with tightly furled dark nipples, the soft curve of her belly, her sleek round arms. And then back to her face where he realized that she was waiting, letting him grow accustomed to her.

Waiting for him. Suddenly he flushed and his cock stirred in his pants. She was naked. She was waiting for him. He did not move but only sat looking from her face to the smallness of her waist, her breasts, her solemn face. He did not move but his cock hardened, straining against his long underwear. His face flushed.

 

Then she leaned forward and placed one white hand against his chest, questioning him with her black eyes.

 

A bolt of arousal shot through him. His cock throbbed. He raised his shaking hands to her face and drew it to him to hide from those piercing eyes and to taste her. A beautiful, kind, willing girl. If she would let him -- God, if she would let him. She kissed him back with salty lips. He slipped his tongue between them. Her teeth were all pointed, identical.

 

Not a girl. Not a girl. Frightened, he would have pulled back, but his hands were already on her breasts, so soft and heavy, and he had already groaned into her mouth with the ache of his need. and felt her arms come up around him. She stroked his hair and shoulders as lovingly as any girl he'd ever had, planting kisses along his jaw, and when she wiggled against him, sweet little wanton, he knew he would, if she would let him.

 

She pushed him back against the dune and he should have been cold there in March, but somehow he was not. She undid the toggles on his coat, pulled up his sweater and unbuttoned his shirt while he stroked her breasts. Then she laid, skin to skin, on his chest.

 

"Ah --" he couldn't help gasping. He drew his hands down to her waist, unsurprised to feel the thin layer of blubber beneath the pliant coolness of her skin. She pulled herself farther on top of him and that first friction against his stiffened organ nearly took him over the edge. He held her hips tightly, breathing for a moment and the danger passed.

 

Her head above him blotted out the moon. She smiled and he wondered at how quickly he had gotten used to her little pointed teeth. He smiled back at their understanding. No tension, no fear of disappointment. She settled in to kissing him, at first gentle pecks, then lightly brushing her lips sideways against his, then opening his lips and caressing his tongue with hers. Each one different, like the white stones and horseshoe crabs, spiral shells and Mermaid's Purses left along the tideline. She licked his lips and rubbed her face against his. She smelled clean, like open water, and beneath it, the familiar scent of a woman. His hands moved farther down to the scaled roundness of her backside, where the feel of the strong muscles flexing there brought his hips up against her with a another gasp.

Her mouth was hot and her skin was cool, and she rubbed her breasts against his chest. He pulled her hair, tangled with salt water, aside and bit her neck in return. She purred.

 

Rolling onto one elbow she made neat work of his belt buckle and buttons. More buttons and then her hand slipping inside to free him, running the length of his shaft so that he cried out, his head pressing back into the sand.

 

He wanted her badly, wanted to be inside her, but how? How did she -- he thought with a shock of the nearly hidden slit on the underside of a fish, that was what they had. He stroked her belly then ran his knuckle down lower, over the slippery scales. She knew what he wanted right away and took his hand my god she took his hand and put it there, no girl had ever done that before and now he was so eager that he couldn't help bucking against her even as his fingers found the opening and slipped inside to where she was hot and slick, so ready so beautiful and kind with her sweet sucking kisses and the way she wriggled down to bring it to his straining cock. They did it together and when he got inside her to the heat and silk she gave a hiss of pleasure through her teeth. He held her bottom and she braced her arms in the sand by his head. He thrust once, then stopped and they looked at each other.

 

Her eyes, there was something different about them but he couldn't make it out. Then he saw; there was a second, clear lid over them, and as he watched, it went up and down and his stomach flipped. She gazed at him gravely and tenderly, a little smile on her lips.

 

He felt her understanding. She saw his peace in this lonely place, his hate and love for Tessa, his strangeness and separateness. She saw right into him and didn't judge. She didn't care about any of those things.

 

"Lass --" he said, but he did not know what he meant. Instead he raised his head and nuzzled her nipple, then sucked. She clenched around his manhood with another hiss. He slid slowly out and then back in with a sigh. Then again, restraining himself. They went on like this, building slowly, his hands running over her back and bottom.

She began doing something very small, mostly inside herself but also moving her tail from side to side. Her eyes were half closed and her nostrils flared with this tiny movement that sped her breathing. Her breasts shivered with it, her eyes closed and her tail drew a circle in the air by his ankles. He felt it on the inside of her now, the sides of her opening caressing his cock around and around, swirling, and he saw that she was going to spend, that she was bringing herself to it, and that was it, a roaring tide of lust swept through him and he yanked her to him and thrust and thrust with cries of relief as he pumped his seed into her in spurts, hearing her high keening as she joined him.

 

They lay for a long while on the sand, her body draped over him. He was girlishly afraid that she would flip back into the water without another glance. He could hardly believe in her, but here she was, under his hands. Tentatively he stroked her back. She made a purring noise deep in her throat and rubbed her forehead against his jaw.

 

The wind changed directions and found them behind the dune, sending chill fingers into his open clothes. The girl shifted and raised her face to him. Another kiss. Her lips were not salty now, but tasted of himself. She was taking her leave. She pushed herself back, wiggling on to the sand.

With a regretful look over her shoulder, she began to make for the water, humping awkwardly with her tail and forearms like a seal. It made him think of sea turtles, too, once their eggs are buried, their single minded scrabble to the sea. He didn't like to watch it.

 

"No, lass, wait," he said, buttoning and buckling himself. He staggered to his feet and lifted her in his arms. The cove was shallow and he had to walk a long way out but he did not want to let her go yet. He wondered again if she were sixteen, sixty or six hundred. When the water was to his waist, he bent and she tightened her arms around him for a moment. As soon as she touched the surface she flexed powerfully and fled -- a flash of moonlight on silver scales. He turned quickly away.

 

Tessa was still sleeping when he got home after night; she never saw that his trousers had gotten soaked.

 

Two weeks passed. He didn't think of it, but he felt the presence of that night as if it were put away and he might take it out to look at someday. He tried tinned peaches and corn fritters, and even feeding Tessa by hand but she wasn't eating enough, and when the boat came he'd send her home.

 

It was the Spring Tide, when the waves came up nearly to the doorstep, and he wouldn't have seen the thing at all if the day hadn't been bright. But he had to look down in the shadow of the light, cautious of the slippery weed on the bottom step. It took his breath away, the cunning little nest, a wreath of kelp decorated with white shells and long striated stones and in the center, a green egg as big as his two fists. A horrified heat rose up his neck. What if Tessa had seen it? But she wouldn't have known. It was not like some village girl come to the tavern to accuse him with his bastard in her arms.

The feeling of the sea girl came back to him. Cool, flexible, so fine and silky inside. How she'd moved, and the grainy slap of her tail on the sand as he thrust. Her strange eyes. He bent and lifted the egg, cradling its smoothness.

Nothing human had mattered to her. She could never understand about Tessa, who put up with his strangeness and shyness as he did her childishness and fears, the two of them joined by pity and anger and the exchange of defects as much as by love and respect. People of the sea, they didn't have this yoked-together struggle; they lived some other way.

 

Tessa might be awake now. He would put off checking the base of the tower and bring her a cup of tea. Surely she would come down today, if only to see the ice breaking up in the bay. He would tell her about it, and she'd come.

 

Suddenly he faced the open sea and hurled the egg two-handed over the water. It made a slow arc in the air and entered with hardly a splash.

 

Turning, he climbed back up the steps and opened the lighthouse door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you to my beta and friend, Delphi.


End file.
